


Summer Haze

by starlightment



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adopted Keith (Voltron), Alternate Universe - Beach, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beach Sex, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), Family Issues, Friendship, Idiots in Love, Keith (Voltron) Has Abandonment Issues, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Lance (Voltron) is a Ray of Sunshine, M/M, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Rich Keith (Voltron), Secret Relationship, Sneaking Around, Summer Romance, Summer Vacation, Surfer Lance (Voltron), eventual smut probably, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28460709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightment/pseuds/starlightment
Summary: Keith's monotonous, hyper-privileged, suffocating little life gets completely flipped upside-down when he starts falling for a handsome local boy working at the same beach resort where Keith is vacationing for the summer.
Relationships: Acxa & Keith (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 346





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome! To be quite honest with you, I don't have enormous plans for this story. It's just an idea that came to me while I was on vacation last year, and thought it'd make a pretty fun setup for a summer romance au. Not much more complicated than that. So, if you're into that sort of thing, I hope you'll stick around for more! 
> 
> Side note: although the rating is set at mature right now, it's very likely that I'll be ratcheting that up to explicit in future chapters. Sexy times are on the horizon lol.

**. . .**

“It’s torture for you, isn’t it?”

Keith predictably bristles when Acxa appears out of nowhere, sidling up to him at the outdoor bar, purring into his ear. The tilt of her grin is smug and downright wicked in response, like dangling bait. 

He shifts away from her, being aggressively nonchalant about it, just to prove a point. “Mid-rail vodka soda?” he says dryly, referencing the highball glass sweating in his grip. “Yeah. Tell me about it. I could gag.”

“Cute,” she scoffs, and then leans in some more to whisper, “but I’m not talking about the _drinks_.”

Keith’s throat bobs infinitesimally, caught somewhere between a strangled breath and a well-practiced rebuttal, but the high, intimidating arch of Acxa’s brow has him steeling his jaw shut instead. It’s no use, anyway. She already sees it smeared all over him like a blood stain. Already knows how false it’s going to sound in the clipped snarl of his voice.

She already knows _everything_.

Which, in all honesty, is partly the reason why their friendship has withstood the test of time as unscathed as it has. That, and their similar upbringings: private boarding schools, trust funds, lavish dinner parties, and sets of parents who’ve been hellbent on manufacturing some sort of picture-perfect romance between the two of them since childhood. A union that, for all intents and purposes, makes total sense in every reality except for the one they happen to live in; the one where they show up arm-in-arm to their families’ soirées, faking smiles for the appeased socialites, while Keith spends the majority of his school days fooling around with Ivy League guys behind closed doors.

(Irony is what Acxa had called it the night he finally confessed his secret — the first time he ever said it out loud, to anyone, really — when they were fifteen and lying on the floor of her bedroom together, half-drunk on something nice they’d stolen from her father’s liquor cabinet.)

( _‘A boy like you,’_ she had mused, a little bitterly, because Keith had pulled away when she went in to kiss him and the rejection was still stinging on both their mouths, _‘who has everything he could ever ask for, can’t have the one thing he really wants.’_ ) 

Across the poolside terrace, there’s an eruption of clattering congas and big brass horns. Guests begin applauding and cheering all around them, shouting their praise as the band rouses into another lively bolero. It’s a pretty solid diversion, Keith thinks fleetingly. A fraction of a second, that’s all he’d need. Just a sliver of stolen time, safe from probing eyes, so that he can lean back ever so slightly in his seat and crane his neck a mere inch to the left, then two inches, _three_ — 

— No. _Fuck_. No, he shouldn’t. The thought of being so transparent, so naked and flayed raw, makes him cringe. Makes his fist clench, knuckles going white around his glass. It makes him doubly determined, if not even more, to fight this urge away before it swells up and consumes him.

But self-restraint has never been Keith’s strong suit, so he lets himself glance over, inevitably.

There’s a boy out on the terrace, set aglow beneath a canopy of paper lanterns and twinkling starlight.

 _Him_.

Keith’s been eyeing him all night.

He works here, at the resort. That’s what Keith assumes, anyway, after catching enough glimpses of him in that neatly ironed uniform, flitting from table to table with bottles of champagne tucked under his arm. Now, though, he’s stationed near the gazebo with a group of ladies who appear a bit over-served and over-friendly as the boy distributes an assortment of colorful cocktails, grinning handsomely. 

The moment bleeds through Keith like venom, fills him up, richer and more vibrant than the technicolor of Varadero’s sunset glittering in the distance. He stares, feeling flushed and electrified in a way that has little to do with the combination of alcohol and jet lag in his system, and more to do with the mental image of peeling back the collar on that uniform to reveal the strong, sun-kissed line where the boy’s neck becomes his clavicle, of Keith running his lips along the skin there, of touching, of _tasting_ — 

To his right, Acxa heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Really?”

Keith bristles. Again. “I didn’t even say anything,” he complains.

“You didn’t even _have_ to.” With an offhanded twirl of her wrist, she summons another round of drinks from the nearest bartender. “I can basically smell it on you. You _reek_ of pheromones and raging stupidity.”

The boy is laughing now, politely, his eyes sparkling with it. One of the ladies joins in, wobbling in her heels, and the boy puts a hand on her elbow to steady her. Keith observes the entire exchange, tingling all over.

God, those _hands_ — 

A leftover cherry stem is suddenly flicked at his nose.

“Cut it out,” Keith hisses. 

“ _You_ cut it out,” Acxa tells him pointedly. “We’re supposed to be having fun on this trip.” 

He looks at her sideways, his smirk small and wry. “And who says I’m not?”

“ _Snorkeling_ is fun, Keith,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Sightseeing, yoga on the beach, bottomless mojitos. But _that_ —” Her gaze slides furtively in the direction of Keith’s staring, then snaps back again. “—that’s got trouble written all over it.”

Off she goes, with drink in hand, patting Keith’s shoulder a little admonishingly as she passes. If Keith has any sense at all, he’ll join her. He could turn his back on this treacherous evening and meet her at the suite, and they could both spend the night gorging on absurd amounts of room service, lounging around in their complimentary silk bathrobes, taking full advantage of every five-star luxury this godforsaken paradise has to offer for the rest of the summer. 

He _could_ , but… he could _also_ …

When Keith glances over again, the boy has moved to the far end of the terrace where it overlooks the ocean, and his female guests are nowhere to be seen. His chest slowly expands as though he’s inhaling deep, his face tipping skyward so that splashes of orange and pink bounce off the waves and onto his cheekbones, practically dripping off the long slope of his lashes. Keith watches in complete stillness, quietly captivated, like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t. Something just beyond his reach.

 _No_ , he says to himself. _You can’t want him. You can’t have him._

The warnings are half-hearted at best, flimsy little murmurs in the background of Keith’s foggy brain until, eventually, they scatter like leaves in the breeze. Keith blinks through the haze, and when he opens his eyes again that boy is looking directly at him, their gazes locked.

Then, a smile. It has absolutely no right to be _that dazzling_.

Keith quirks a brow, intrigued, sucking down the rest of his subpar vodka soda in one thick gulp. It burns his sinuses, but that doesn’t stop him from starting on his second without even skipping a beat.

Maybe Acxa has a point. 

That’s got trouble written _all_ over it. 

* * *

It had started like this: 

Wind in his hair, sun in his eyes, pushing fifty over the speed limit as he swerves around the narrow bend of some nameless backroad a couple miles outside town.

Keith doesn’t really miss anything about the first seven years of his life he spent in Texas, except for the desert. Sometimes he misses the good days — the _sober_ days, that is — when his father would put him on the back of his old Ducati and gun it, whipping up clouds of dirt and sand in their wake, hurtling so fast down those endless stretches of land that it rattled Keith’s bones and satisfied something restless living in his soul.

(Now, whenever he reflects back on all the times his father would put a whiskey bottle to his lips or lose his temper so bad that he’d punch a hole through the drywall, he wonders if that was him trying to satisfy his own itch.)

These New Hampshire suburbs where Keith currently resides, however, with their tree-lined streets and white picket fences, feel suffocating in comparison. It’s as if he can see the edges of his own existence looming in the horizon, tall and towering; _a cage_. There’s just not enough emptiness, not enough space to go nowhere, not enough room to get lost in.

And Keith’s adoptive father may not have an old Ducati in the desert, but, as it turns out, he _does_ have a garage full of exotic sports cars, so. Keith manages.

Today’s joyride selection is a stunning Aston Martin DBS Superleggera — sexy, powerful, and strictly off-limits, which only makes it all the more attractive in Keith’s eyes. He watches the speedometer tick steadily upward, both hands vibrating on the wheel. The engine rumbles in Keith’s veins like distant thunder and that, at least, is familiar. That wild rush of adrenaline, that swooping, stomach-sick sensation of careening through the desert, borderless, weightless, going going _going_ —

Until the rest of the world just fades away.

By the time he’s done and starts rolling up the cobblestone driveway to his house, Acxa is waiting out front on the giant wrap-around porch. Keith braces himself when he sees the harsh, no-nonsense look on her face — which is pretty much how her face always looks, but still; nothing about it bodes well — and briefly considers reversing the hell out of here. He’d probably do it, too, if he didn’t think that crashing Kolivan’s $300,000 car through the security gate would get him completely eviscerated.

“Went for the Aston, hm?” she sneers at him as he’s climbing out of the driver’s seat. The car locks itself with a sleek little _beep-beep_ noise. “How _posh_.”

Keith trudges across the lawn, past the garden fountains and manicured hedges. “Who even let you in?” he sighs. 

“You say that like I’m not welcome.”

“Depends why you’re here.”

Acxa rises gracefully from the swinging bench. “Mother dearest, along with her _charming_ committee of desperate housewives, are hosting a cotillion tonight,” she explains. “Be my date?”

“What the hell’s a cotillion?” asks Keith, stepping around her to get to the front door.

The house is an immaculate monstrosity on the inside, all burnished mahogany and crystal chandeliers. Old money. It’s never done much for Keith, but, then again, neither has that dreary shack in Texas. At least this place _tries_ to feel like a home, with portraits and framed photographs of Keith’s unsmiling face lining the walls, each one stiffer and more unnatural the older he grew. His adoptive parents flanking either side, their expressions over-rehearsed, their hands firm on Keith’s shoulder. Snapshots of a pristine family.

Keith keeps his head down as he passes them, making a beeline for the kitchen. 

“Oh, you know,” comes Acxa’s deadpan drawl, following close behind. “High-strung society women dressing their petty little pre-teen daughters in ridiculous costumes, having them twirl around on the dance floor for attention. It’s good for a laugh.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Keith groans. He opens the fridge and starts rifling through it.

Acxa leans an elbow onto the granite countertop so that she can rest her chin in her palm. “You went to mine, remember?”

“I try not to.”

“You and my mother both. The look on her face when she caught me wearing combat boots under my gown is, to this day, the crowning achievement of my life.” She allows herself a moment to relish that memory, with hints of fondness and self-satisfaction. “Anyway, you haven’t answered my question. Are you in?”

“Out,” says Keith, reaching for the orange juice. He takes a swig straight from the carton, caps it, puts it back. “Definitely out.”

“Fine. We’ll do happy hour at Belmont’s, then.”

“Acxa.”

“We’ve yet to properly celebrate the end of the semester, after all.”

“I said I’m _out_ ,” Keith snaps at Acxa, who seems entirely unaffected by the outburst, much to his irritation. “Look, can we not do this today? I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Acxa exhales, long and even. “I had a feeling you’d be in one of your moods,” she mutters to herself, pensively, like she’s inspecting him under a microscope. It only irritates Keith more. “Time for plan B.”

“What’s plan B?”

She provides no further explanation; just a plain manila folder from her handbag. Keith opens it, half-expecting some sort of gag gift — lately she’s been joking about getting him a free eyebrow wax — but instead finds a stack of travel brochures. Bright-colored vistas and scenic mountaintops and big block letters advertising everything from luxury cruise lines around the Caribbean to treks across foreign countrysides that Keith can’t even pronounce. 

He surveys the brochures, then her, with suspicion. “Are you… going somewhere?”

“ _We_ are, actually,” corrects Acxa, arms folded, lips curling like they always do whenever she thinks she has the upper hand. “Anywhere you want.” 

Almost immediately, though, Keith is forcing the folder back into her grasp. “Thanks,” he mutters, and then swivels around, “but I don’t need a vacation.” 

He’s halfway up the long, winding staircase when he hears Acxa stomping after him, relentless.

“What you _need_ is therapy,” she insists, “but that doesn’t work if you refuse to go to your appointments. So, we’re compromising.”

“Let me guess,” Keith drones knowingly, taking a sharp left on the landing, toward his bedroom. “Krolia put you up to this.”

“Your mother isn’t the only one who’s concerned, Keith. You have no social life, no extracurriculars. Can you even name one real friend you have? Besides me?”

Keith, defiantly, does not answer.

“And you’re an idiot if you think we didn’t notice how you _conveniently_ avoided coming home for Christmas _and_ spring break this year.”

Finally, Keith brings himself to a halt in the middle of his room, scowling at Acxa as she breezes past him to dump the folder onto his nightstand. The whole thing feels like an old wound at this point, one that they keep scraping the scab off of, over and over, but it manages to draw a trickle of blood regardless. “For the last time, Acxa, I was _busy_.” 

“Doing what?” She whirls around to challenge him, hands on her hips. “That scumbag James from your astrophysics class?”

“…Fuck off.”

“All I’m trying to say is that when you keep pushing people away like that, it only gives us even more reason to think you aren’t okay.” They both go silent, letting the dust of those words settle for a bit, until Acxa has to ask, “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? You’d tell me if you weren’t okay?” 

Keith twitches uncomfortably under her gaze. He hates the way she says it, gentler than usual, and how she looks him over with dark, low-lidded eyes, like she actually… 

Look, he knows that she cares — in fact, she’s one of the very few people in this world who does, unfailingly, in spite of Keith’s difficulties — but sometimes the knowing isn’t _enough_. It doesn’t undo a whole seven year’s worth of broken trust, just like that. It doesn’t alleviate all the skin-prickling impulses stewing inside him; that sinister thorn in his side urging him to gnash his teeth in the face of compassion or companionship, to run the other way at the first sight of something soft and supple he could sink his roots into.

He thinks, suddenly, about the young boy in those pictures downstairs, about the stern but generous parents who just want to see him smile, and then the guilt twists in his gut like a corkscrew.

Plopping heavily onto his bed, Keith says with resignation, “I tell you everything.”

“Then tell me where you want to go,” says Acxa, gesturing at the folder. “There’s no wrong answer here, Keith. See something new. Eat good food. Meet people. Have some _fun_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“I have fun,” he lies.

“Yes,” Acxa mutters, dripping sarcasm, “I’m sure that being self-destructive is _such_ a blast. You could use a better hobby, though, if you ask me.” She stops just short of the threshold and grins over her shoulder, faux-sweetly. “Knitting, perhaps?”

Keith responds by flinging a pillow at her head, but Acxa catches it one-handed and hurls it right back before slamming the door shut behind her. It hits the edge of Keith’s nightstand, sends those stupid brochures scattering all over the floor.

With a huff, Keith stoops down to gather them up — to cram them back into that folder, to shove it away, just like he does with everything else in his life, apparently — except when he does, his gaze inexplicably sticks to the very first brochure his fingers happen to reach.

He stares at it, his mind swimming.

 _‘Come to Varadero Beach!’_ the cover demands. _‘Your perfect summer getaway awaits!’_

* * *

So, Cuba.

No more than twenty minutes after Keith had texted Acxa about his decision, she had already booked them an executive suite at some all-inclusive tourist trap called _Paradisus Varadero_ and a pair of first-class plane tickets to take them there the following morning. She’s always been frighteningly efficient like that. 

And no more than forty-eight hours after _that_ , Keith finds himself buried in a queen-sized sea of Egyptian cotton, with a seahorse-shaped pillow wedged under one arm and a very present but manageable hangover. His mind is fuzzy when he wakes, disoriented in a good way, still clinging to the bleary afterimages of his dream: a dazzling smile and strong brown hands.

It’s, admittedly, the best sleep he’s had in months.

Acxa, ever the early riser, is curled up in one of the upholstered armchairs by the time Keith shuffles into the main living area. The glass coffee table in front of her boasts an impressive spread of breakfast dishes, a pitcher of sangria, and what appears to be a dozen different flavors of jam.

“Ah, so you _are_ alive,” she comments, barely glancing up from her tablet. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Keith falls into the seat across from her, scanning through the food options until he finds something with bacon. “Guess they don’t call them blackout curtains for nothing,” he yawns. “Got any plans today?”

“ _I_ will be spending the day at the spa,” she tells him blithely, “because if last night proved anything it’s that I’ll be needing every single one of my chakras aligned in order to deal with _your_ escapades all summer long.”

Keith shoots her a look, his mouth full of bacon and egg.

“Or should I say _sexcapades_.”

“Hah.” He rolls his eyes and swallows. “So, basically what you’re saying is —”

“That I’m ditching you for a hot stone massage, yes,” Acxa confirms as she gets on her feet. “Speaking of, I don’t want to be late for my reservation. Let’s meet up for dinner, hm?”

“Sure,” says Keith, shoveling another forkful into his mouth. “Enjoy your… chakras. Or whatever.”

“Behave yourself,” Acxa reminds him on the way out, and then the door closes behind her with a click.

So… _Cuba_.

It’s actually not too bad, Keith concludes after throwing on some clothes and perusing the grounds for a while. He strolls under swaying palm trees and terra-cotta archways, through orchid gardens and rows of poolside cabana huts. The people staying here aren’t terribly different from the ones he’s grown used to seeing back home, on the lawn of his parents’ country club, at those stuffy charity luncheons that Krolia sometimes drags him along to. Well-groomed men and stylish women, all varying degrees of filthy-rich.

Keith moves past them, like an outsider looking in, then down the gravelly pathway that leads to the beach.

He’s never seen the ocean before.

The realization dawns on him as soon as he removes his sneakers and sinks his feet into the sun-baked sand, feeling the heat of the day between his toes. His parents have a house on Lake Sunapee, which they frequent quite often for holidays and long weekends, but it’s got nothing on the jewel-blue tides of the Atlantic. Keith walks along the shoreline, slowly, reverently, letting the water lick at his ankles. He walks until the resort becomes a mere glowing speck in the distance. Then he walks some more.

Beneath him, the sand looks buttery and untouched, smoothed over by rolling waves. This strip of beach he seems to’ve wandered onto is uninhabited and it reminds Keith, in some ways, of the desert. As he lowers himself to the ground and gazes out at the sea, it’s all he can think about; how the water blends so seamlessly with the horizon, how it unfurls to the farthest ends of the earth and just keeps going…

… and _going_ …

… _and_ _going_ …

Blue… so much _blue_.

It’s everywhere, all around him, seeping in through the crevices. Keith is floating in it, _drowning_ in it. Blue water. Blue sky. Blue… eyes?

He jolts awake, and the person hovering over him gives a startled yelp, stumbling backwards, hands raised defensively. Keith blinks in rapid succession, still groggy from his accidental cat nap, but, even so, it doesn’t take him long at all to notice that this person is indisputably —

 _Him_.

That boy.

Except he looks different, here, with the ocean at his back and the daylight on his face. His hair, for one, is no longer flattened down with gel; it sits atop his head in fluffy tufts, tenderly tousled and curly around his nape. And the crisp, overly-starched lines of his work uniform have been replaced by denim shorts, edges fraying just above the knees, and a button-down shirt, parting at his bare chest as it flaps open in the breeze. There’s a string of cowrie shells wrapped around his ankle and even more of them gathered into the small wire basket hanging from his grasp. He’s _gorgeous_. He’s golden and freckled all over, like pure sunshine on two long legs. 

Keith gawks at him, reeling, because it’s almost hard to believe that this is actually the same slicked-back, clean-cut guy he remembers scouting at the bar.

Then the boy starts talking, fast, fluent — and in Spanish.

Panic grips Keith by the throat, makes him stutter out a series of helpless little noises in response to the boy’s rambling, like the air’s being punched from his lungs. There’s a lot of pointing and waving going on as well, but Keith can’t decipher any of _that_ , either. All he can do is keep gawking, frozen in place, until the boy falls silent, his head cocked expectantly. 

“Sorry,” is the first thing Keith blurts when he finally has the wherewithal to speak. “I don’t, uh — no… um.”

He gestures uselessly with both hands. The boy lifts an eyebrow, and Keith feels himself growing stupider by the second.

“No hablo —” he flounders. “—uh, _Spanish_.”

At that, the boy barks out a laugh, so loud and so sudden that it bursts warmly behind Keith’s ribs. It sounds so unlike the stilted, artificial noise Keith heard him make last night with that group of ladies. “Ahh, nah, don’t sweat it,” he drawls, in a way that emphasizes the buoyant lilt of his flawless American accent. “Looks like we’re gonna have to do things your way, then, chico. Language barriers are a real drag, anyway, am I right?”

“Right,” breathes Keith, somewhat relieved, although his brain still feels like it’s a hundred paces behind. “Sorry,” he mutters again.

The boy shrugs, loose and easy. “M’used to it,” he says. “But anyway, like I was saying, you can’t sleep out here. I mean, you _can_ , but you probably shouldn’t. It’s a whole liability thing. Management recommends that tourists stick to resort property, in case we gotta cover our asses in the event that something happens, yada-yada. I’m off the clock right now, though, so don’t expect me to, like, manhandle you back up the beach or anything, _but_ …” 

“Uh, yeah, I get it,” says Keith. “I didn’t know.”

“And now ya do,” the boy replies, offering a quick little salute before pivoting in the sand and going back the way he came.

Keith grabs his shoes by the laces and clambers awkwardly to his feet. “I’m Keith,” he announces, even though nobody asked, voice rising to be heard over a crashing wave to their right, “by the way.”

The boy stops and turns around after just a few steps, giving Keith an amused once-over. “Um, cool? I mean, yeah. Room 619, Kogane, party of two.” He scrunches his nose, thinking hard. “From… New Hampshire, was it?”

“How d’you know that?”

“Well, first part’s pretty obvious since I dropped off room service for you and your girlfriend this morning,” says the boy. Keith outwardly winces, but lets the assumption go, for now. “But the other stuff I got from snooping through your guest file.”

Another wince. “I have a _file?”_

Chuckling, the boy says, “Not as creepy as it sounds, trust me. We’re supposed to keep tabs on all our top floor guests. Y’know. Gotta make sure you fancy folk aren’t up to anything shady under _our_ roof.” His gaze narrows for a moment, playfully accusing, then relaxes again. “Congrats to you, though, ‘cause so far your record’s squeaky clean, amigo.”

Keith stares for a brief beat of silence, unsure how to proceed. The boy is grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling mischievously. 

Eventually, he goes, “Amigo means friend.”

“ _I know what amigo means_ ,” Keith enunciates, heat crawling up the back of his neck, “thanks.”

“Juuust checkin’,” the boy chirps, still grinning. “Welp, it’s been a pleasure chit-chatting, but my next shift starts soon, so I better head back.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you around.”

He nods, looking pleasantly bewildered. “That you will,” he says, and then makes to leave again. “Have a nice snooze.”

Just like that, Keith watches him go. Watches him amble through the shallow surf. Watches him pause intermittently, crouching down to collect shells, adding them to his basket. He watches the sunlight swallow him up, wholly, brilliantly, going going _going_ —

Until the rest of the world just fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse all the exposition – we're getting to the good stuff, I promise! 
> 
> [FIC PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/50y83Ynyi9A4cUfwnWUlN6?si=Dke_1QVNTC-dzSJyqMKOjQ)
> 
> [MY TWITTER](https://twitter.com/starlightment)  
> [MY TUMBLR](https://starlightments.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**. . .**

Keith ends up running behind for dinner — by no fault of his own, might he add. Acxa texts him a mere fifteen minutes before their supposed reservation to inform him about the dress code, and so Keith, still windswept and sandy from his afternoon on the beach, has to scramble. He pulls on some fitted slacks and the first collared shirt he can fish out of his suitcase.

(Everything he owns is of the finest fabric, masterfully tailored, and yet none of it sits right on his skin. The feeling follows him like a shadow, remnants from childhood: a mismatched boy who doesn’t belong. A scrappy kid from a desert shack, playing make-believe with costumes that don't quite fit.) 

He doesn’t jog, but he certainly doesn’t walk down the long, mosaic-tiled hallway toward the elevators, fussing with the tie he almost forgot to put on before he left the suite. His phone is chiming in his back pocket with Acxa’s impatient texts, and this damn tie keeps slipping through his fingers, and he’s so preoccupied with all of it that he doesn’t even notice room 611’s door being flung open on his right until it’s too late.

“‘Scuse m—”

It’s _him_.

The boy comes hurtling from the suite and cuts right in front of Keith. They’re just inches away from a head-on collision, bodies still in motion, but Keith jerks himself back at the last second. Everything happens so fast, like the stark pop of a gunshot: the boy startles, blue eyes flashing. His lips part and his uniform shirt is clutched in one hand, leaving him stripped down to an undershirt. Keith’s breath hitches, and by the time he regains his footing, the boy has already fled around the corner.

Shortly thereafter, a young woman appears in the doorway and leans up against the jamb, holding a wine glass by its stem.

“Thanks for the _exceptional_ service, Lance,” she calls down the hall, “as always.”

 _Lance_. Something fizzles in Keith’s brain like a spark plug.

The woman eventually turns to Keith. She drinks him in slowly, her grin simpering and snake-like.

“You lost, handsome?”

Keith blinks himself alert, eyes flitting over her cocked hip, the lacy trim of her polka-dotted negligee, the way she’s sizing him up like he’s a mouth-watering morsel of — _wait_.

Did they just…?

…and _she_ —

Another little fizzle fires off in Keith’s brain, except, this time, it’s a bit more like a nuclear explosion. 

* * *

When Keith finally arrives at their table, Acxa is already downing her second merlot, so he flags a waiter and orders himself a double vodka soda to make up for his delay.

“What took you so long?” she asks as soon as he takes a seat.

“Forgot my tie,” is his lame explanation, which earns him a funny look.

Dinner is fine; as fine as a sit-down dinner can be for Keith, who would much rather inhale his food or shred it with his bare hands than agonize over which fork to use. It tastes good, at least. His drink starts kicking in somewhere around the main course and only a short while after that, he catches sight of that boy — _Lance, Lance, Lance,_ his stupid vodka-brain emphasizes — emerging from the staff kitchen with a tray of martinis.

He looks normal. Remarkably normal. As in, his hair is coiffed and his uniform is spotless. As in, there are no loose buttons or crooked collars, no incriminating clues, not even a whiff of secrecy hidden behind his smile as he weaves nimbly through the tables, delivering drinks, making smalltalk with guests.

He looks… as if nothing ever happened at all.

Alright, so.

 _So_.

Keith needs another drink.

It gets late. Acxa taps out after three glasses and heads back to the suite, but Keith decides to stay behind at the bar. Around him, the dining room gradually empties, settling down for the evening, unlike Keith’s dizzying thoughts. He keeps replaying the image of Lance’s face as he stumbled out of that room: wide-eyed and caught red-handed. Then he stacks that up against the prim, regulation-perfect server he saw during dinner tonight, and how seemingly effortless it is for Lance to bounce between the two, like the routine is clockwork. Familiar. _Habitual_ , even.

Realization sweeps through Keith’s body in a way that sticks under his skin like a splinter. He thinks back to his first night in Cuba, when he spotted Lance across the terrace and couldn’t look away. Those jeweled eyes, that winsome grin, how the sunset nestled around him until he shone bronze. Of course Keith couldn’t have been the only one looking that night, of _course_ , but acknowledging that doesn’t stop a very petulant part of him from wanting to spit and snarl and say _I saw him first, I—_

“Uh-oh,” says a smooth, sing-songy voice. “Trouble in paradise?”

Keith glances over to find Lance on the other side of the bar, polishing glassware. His eyes have a soft, playful glow to them, sort of like they did this morning on the beach, bathed in sunlight. It hits Keith like whiplash.

“Huh?” he replies. 

Lance chuckles knowingly. “From my experience, there’s usually only a handful of reasons why you’d find a guy moping around the bar by himself at this hour. Y’know, I think the boutique downstairs might still be open, if you hurry. Get her something nice and all will be forgiven, trust me,” he assures with a wink. “Ladies love _sparkle_.” 

“Right,” Keith intones. Then, grinding the words into an accusation, he goes, “And, from _my_ experience, it seems like you _would_ be the authority on that sort of thing.”

It’s out there before he can second-guess it, his tongue too heavy and syrupy-slow to reel it back in. The harshness of it stings, but he can’t deny the dark pleasure that overcomes him as he watches Lance’s picturesque smile falter, just slightly; a crack in his facade. 

“Listen, chico,” begins Lance, calmly, reasonably, “whatever it is that you think you saw earlier—”

“I know what I saw.”

“—I guarantee it’s not even remotely close to the truth,” he says. Keith raises a doubtful eyebrow in response. “She’s a _guest_. Here. At the place where I work. She ordered bottle service, but didn’t have an opener, so I stopped by to help. Because did I mention the part where _she’s a guest at the place where I_ _work_.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured while you were bolting out of her room half-dressed.”

“ _After_ she spilled her wine all over my shirt. I had to go change or else management would’ve wrung me out like a rag if they caught me running around in a dirty uniform.”

For a tense beat, they just stare at each other across the bar. Keith returns to the scene in his mind again, calculating the facts. There’s the discarded shirt, for one thing, but everything else on Lance’s person had still looked spick and span. And, now that he’s thinking about it, those polka-dots on the young woman’s outfit _had_ seemed kind of blotchy and uneven, almost like splatters of…

Heat floods Keith’s cheeks, leaving him no choice but to avert his gaze out of sheer embarrassment. Gruffly, with shoulders caving inward, he mutters, “…Oh.”

“ _Oh_ , he says!” crows Lance, clearly delighted, even as he clicks his tongue in mock-disapproval. “Goddamn rich kids, comin’ in here with your smutty soap opera love scandals, your TMZ-flavored nonsense—” 

“That’s…!” Keith grits his teeth as even more color threatens to consume his face. “…that’s what it looked like, okay!”

Lance tosses his head back and laughs.

“ _Okay_ ,” Keith huffs, indignant, all sharply enunciated. “You can stop now.” 

“I know, my bad, it’s just — _hoo_ , man, I needed that.”

The rest of Lance’s amusement peters out into a quiet little hum as he resumes his cleaning. Meanwhile, Keith frowns at his drink where it’s cradled between his palms. It must be a much stronger potion than he thinks if it’s getting him _this_ riled up, _this_ bent out of shape over something so utterly ludicrous and, by all accounts, false.

Because Lance obviously wouldn’t sleep around with a guest. Like, _obviously_. 

Keith peeks up at him through his shaggy bangs, being discreet about it — or so he assumes — until Lance, without warning, breaks into another grin. He meets Keith’s eyes sidelong, tilts his chin just so and gives Keith his chiseled jawline, preening under the attention.

...Like. _Obviously._

Keith looks down again. Clears his throat. “So,” he says, tapping the rim of his glass with a blunt fingernail, “your name’s Lance?” 

“Eeyup, that’s me,” chirps Lance. “Leandro, technically, but you’re not my mama, so it’s Lance. That’s what all my buddies call me, y’know, in the states. I go to school there. Working here’s just a summer thing, since it’s so close to home and all.”

Keith nods. “That explains the English.”

“It comes in handy, for sure.” Lance keeps scrubbing away at the champagne flute in his hand, sets it aside, moves on to the next. “Plus, being bilingual’s pretty much the main reason I even landed _this sweet gig_ in the first place, so. Zero complaints.”

That’s what he says, but his tone, the way he sneers it from the corner of his mouth, suggests that maybe the gig isn’t actually all that sweet.

“What about you?” he asks after a brief pause. “What’s your story, Keith Kogane, from the faraway land of New Hampshire?”

“Um,” mumbles Keith, wracking his brain for an insignificant tidbit to share. Anything to avoid delving into what is perhaps his least favorite question. “I go to Dartmouth.”

“ _Ooh_.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s okay.”

With an incredulous scoff, Lance prompts, “Just okay? You sure about that, Ivy League?” 

Keith can only bring himself to shrug noncommittally.

“Eh, but what do I know, anyhow,” Lance sighs, rueful. “I’m just a little ‘ol arts major over here.”

“You’re an artist?”

Lance perks up at that. “Mostly photography, yeah, but I’ve been known to mess around with oil paint and pastels from time to time.” His eyes are dancing under the dim bar lights, glinting like sapphires, like tiny twilit stars. “Ceramics, too, whenever I’m feelin’ extra _handsy_. I had a real hard time sitting still, when I was a kid, so drawing and coloring gave me something to do that wasn’t, like, destructive. Even though, this one time, I _did_ break into my sister’s password-protected diary and doodled all over the pages and, _man_ , did she whoop my butt for that one.”

Keith feels his own lips fluttering on the verge of a smile. He doesn’t know how it happened, or where it’s been hiding this whole time, only that the wonderful, luminous look on Lance’s face has managed to tug it out of him somehow.

“I dunno, I guess I just like capturing moments,” Lance goes on, a bit wistful. “And places, and things. It’s like… tangible memories, y’know? You get to keep them close and look at them forever, and… ah. Anyway. Am I rambling? I feel like you haven’t said anything in a while, so I must be rambling.”

“No,” says Keith. “I mean, you are, a little, but it’s—” _It’s nice listening to you talk. I’ve never met anyone like you before. Your eyes get even bluer when you’re excited, did you know that?_ “—it’s fine. I, uh. I don’t mind.” 

One side of Lance’s mouth quirks up. “Not much of a talker, there, huh?”

Again, Keith shrugs.

“Touché,” says Lance.

Maybe, Keith thinks muddily through the haze of alcohol, it’s because he doesn’t have anything to talk endlessly about the way that Lance does. He’s never known that kind of passion. He’s never felt his whole face light up — the way Lance’s had just now — with the thrill of knowing that he has something in this world that’s meant for _him_ and belongs to _him_ , irrevocably.

(And maybe that’s because Keith has never let himself get that attached in the first place, has never opened his heart wide enough to let anything inside, for fear that doing so would reveal all the delicate parts of him; the breakable parts.)

(But, maybe, if he did… maybe then he wouldn’t always have to feel so… _so_ —)

“So why don’t you do it, then?” Keith wonders aloud.

“Hm?” Lance sounds distracted, unsure. Enough time has passed, apparently, that he’s confused about what Keith is referring to. “Do…?”

“Art.”

“Uh,” Lance mutters, hesitating. “I _am_ doing art. Kinda. Whenever I can, at least. There’s, like — well, there’re a couple murals in Old Havana that I’ve—”

“No, I mean instead of _this_ ,” Keith clarifies, gesturing to the empty dining room, and then Lance just snorts; a dry scrape of noise that hooks into Keith’s chest. He should probably let it go, but, _fuck_ , this drink is strong and he _refuses_ to be laughed at again, so he soldiers on, brow pinched and stubborn: “If you say it’s what you like to do and you’re already going to school for it, then… it just _makes sense_.” His voice is rough, scratched raw with the effort it takes him to keep his own private, yearning ache from creeping into it. When he blinks, he can see visions of open highways, and boundless deserts, and stoic family portraits lining the wall and— “That’s what you should be doing, not wasting your time here.”

A laugh, hollow and soft.

“ _What_ is so funny?” 

“Oh, so you—” Lance studies him, hard, and then inhales slowly through an o-shaped mouth with grim understanding. “—oh, okay, I see, I almost forgot. You’re _you_.”

A muscle twitches in Keith’s jaw, disgruntled. “Like I’m supposed to know what that means.”

“It means that maybe _you_ get to live in a world without consequences, but here, in reality, if I don’t have a job with a steady paycheck, then my family might not have a roof over their heads.”

The floor seems to lurch beneath him. “I didn’t—”

“Have you ever even had a job before? I’m talking about a _real_ job,” Lance suddenly demands. Something unfurls in the back of his eyes, then snaps like a wire, like a nerve being viciously tweaked. “‘Cause I’ve been working almost every day of my life since I was sixteen. After school, weekends, holidays, you name it. Everything I make gets sent home to my family, and whatever they’re able to spare goes straight into my tuition. We’re not exactly _rolling in it_ , if you catch my drift.”

God, Keith wants to kick himself, wants to shove his own foot so far down his throat that he chokes on it, and he wants Lance to have that lovely look on his face again, he wants—

“So, yeah, y’know what? It’d be awesome if I could just _do art_ all day long and have someone else worry about the hard stuff, but some of us can’t afford to just do whatever we want.” 

The ensuing silence rings in Keith’s ears. It burrows deep into his bones and sits there, a sickening buzz. But if Keith feels bad, then Lance must feel downright horrid, given how he seems to be freeze-framed in some catatonic state of shock, belatedly registering what he’s said — and to a _guest_ , no less.

“Sorry, I’m… really sorry,” he croaks, hoarse, airless. “That was way out of bounds, me saying all that.”

Keith remains quiet.

And then, making a decision, he reaches into his back pocket.

“What’re you doing?” 

“Your tip,” Keith mumbles as he opens his wallet. “I’m tipping you.”

Lance flinches in alarm, his whole body recoiling. “No, no, that’s not — it’s included in your tab, okay, don’t—”

“Here, this should be—”

“Look, it’s _fine_ , you don’t have to—”

“Just _take it_.” Keith’s tone brooks no argument. He smacks the money onto the counter; one of those CUC bills that Acxa gave him when they landed. A hundred pesos. “I want you to have it.”

But then…

But then Lance’s expression drops, falls away like rubble, and Keith feels his stomach do something similar. The long tendon in Lance’s neck goes taut, and those blue eyes, now having lost their luster, stare coldly at the money for a moment. Then another. And another.

“Gee, thanks,” he finally murmurs, low and monotone. “How so very _generous_ of you.”

Abruptly, Lance snatches the bill and crumples it in his fist as he stalks off, leaving Keith all alone at the bar in unbearable silence.

* * *

“I cannot _believe_ you gave him _money_ , Keith,” says Acxa. 

A groan. “I know.”

“Of all the things you could’ve done in that situation, you had to choose the one that made you look like an absolute—”

“ _I know_ ,” snaps Keith, with yet another groan. “I get it now, okay? I get why it was bad.” 

Bad, however, seems to be a bit of an understatement. When Keith passed Lance in the lobby this morning, he tried saying hello, but all he’d gotten in return was a tight smile and the same uninspired, “Buenos días, señor,” that he’s required to greet every guest with. And then, at breakfast, Keith caught Lance legitimately swapping shifts with one of his coworkers; caught him removing his apron as soon as Keith sat down and then taking off across the terrace.

Now, hours later, Keith peers over his shoulder from where he and Acxa are laying on a pair of beach loungers under a big straw umbrella. In the distance, Lance is mixing cocktails at the outdoor bar, uniform sleeves rolled up to his elbows to withstand the subtropical heat. He hasn’t even so much as glanced in Keith’s direction since he got here, and the worst part is that Keith can’t even blame him for it. 

It was a pretty dick move, after all. The textbook definition of snobbery: throwing his wealth around like it’s nothing because, for Keith, it _is_ nothing, just petty cash, and he certainly had no plans to do anything better with it himself. Keith, who has more money than he could ever need — more money than he even _wants_ , really — had only been trying to help, but, in actuality… 

…Well, in actuality, Lance hadn’t been _asking_ him for any help.

“So,” Acxa urges, smearing sunscreen onto her forearm, “what are you going to do about it?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Sounds effective,” she deadpans.

Keith slouches down so far in his chair that he nearly melts right off it. “Not much I _can_ do if he keeps avoiding me like this,” he sulks.

“There’s this thing called an apology,” says Acxa, rolling her eyes behind the round frames of her Chanel sunglasses. “Grovel, if you must. Nothing’s sexier than a man on his knees.”

Keith squints at her, skeptical. “You told me to stay out of trouble.”

“Your type _is_ trouble, Keith,” she sighs, like it exhausts her to admit. “And besides, you’re always significantly more pleasant to be around when you’re getting laid, so, for our vacation’s sake, I’ll allow it.”

“I’m not—” Keith starts, mouth forming around a protest, but it already sounds whinier than he’d like it to. Cutting himself off with a huff, he goes, “Ugh. Whatever. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because in case you haven’t noticed, he’s not interested in some kinda… some—”

“Some pretentious blue-blooded inbred who shells out more cash for designer underwear than he does on three months of groceries?”

“ _Exactly_ ,” he exclaims, lifting his hands in exasperation. “And that’s what he thinks I am. An asshole. A _straight_ asshole.”

Acxa nods sagely. “The worst kind of asshole.” 

“The _worst_.”

“Are you honestly surprised, though? Just look at this place,” she says, indifferent, as though it’s not even half as mortifying as Keith feels it is. “It’s crawling with honeymooners.” She finishes lathering up her arms, then offers the tube to Keith. “Get my back?”

He regards the sunscreen with mild horror. Stiffly, he tells her, “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Acxa holds his gaze, her expression going flat. “Keith, we’ve established that you have less than favorable opinions on the female anatomy—”

“Shut up,” hisses Keith.

“—but if my tan gets ruined on this trip because of your, frankly, _Shakespearean levels of angst_ —”

“Shut _up_.”

“—then I will _happily_ throttle you in your sleep.”

Keith grabs the tube instantly, popping the top with an agitated grunt. “I hate you,” he declares as Acxa turns her back to him.

“Don’t forget the shoulders,” she reminds.

“So, so much—”

“Perdóname.”

Even in another language, that voice has Keith’s heart leaping all the way up to his molars. He cranes his neck around so sharply that he almost feels it crack and finds Lance standing there, holding himself rigid. The fall of his shadow stops just shy of where Keith sits, as if Lance’s limits are a line drawn through the sand and he dares not cross it.

“Is there anything I can get for you two this afternoon?” he asks cordially, though his smile is a brittle, awful thing to behold.

Keith is staring, and so he doesn’t miss the infinitesimal flit of Lance’s gaze as it darts toward his hands, which are coated in a layer of SPF 50 and hooked under the straps of Acxa’s bathing suit top. His heart slithers back down his throat with a pitiful thud.

Acxa, whipping a look over her bare shoulder, says, “I’ll take a rum and coke.” 

“And for you, señor?” says Lance, low and staccato-sounding.

He’s still eyeing Keith’s hands.

“Um,” Keith wheezes.

“He’ll have the same,” Acxa quickly intervenes.

Then, with a perfunctory nod, Lance turns and begins threading his way through the crowd of beach-goers. Keith slumps forward until his nose bumps against the back of Acxa’s skull, muffling a groan into her hair.

“Well,” she says after a moment, “that probably could’ve gone better.”

“Don’t start.”

To Acxa’s credit, she doesn’t, but she does pass him a sly grin as she rises from the chair and stretches languidly, pulling her body into a long, sleek line. The group of brutish twenty-somethings sitting a couple rows behind them must be losing their damn minds right now.

“I’m going to cool off,” she announces, setting her sights on the crystal-blue horizon. “Feel free to join me. You might be needing it after _that_.” 

“I hope your whole face peels off,” Keith snipes at Acxa, who flashes him a freshly manicured middle finger before disappearing down the beach.

He’s busy wiping his slimy palms onto a nearby towel when he hears the distinct _clink-clink_ of drinks being set onto the rattan table between the two loungers. Keith bristles like a spooked animal. 

“Just curious,” says Lance, arching an impeccably groomed eyebrow. “Does your girlfriend actually approve of you ogling the waitstaff?”

Keith grimaces up at him, the midday sun burning a golden halo around Lance’s face. “I—”

“Look,” Lance interrupts. “I’m not in the business of telling people how to live their lives, but if you think you’re being subtle, then I regret to inform you…”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” snaps Keith.

“So, newlyweds?”

Keith drags a hand through the front of his hair, fighting the urge to rip it out at the root. “No, we’re—” An annoyed sigh. “—she’s just a friend. Who’s a girl.” 

Lance’s brow twitches even higher, unconvinced. “Oookay, then. Well, I tried to help. Ogle away, I guess,” he says dryly, holding out his arms and doing a tiny twirl on his way back to the bar. 

And before Keith can even clock it, he’s springing to his feet and following after him. 

“Hey,” he spits out, smacking his hands flat to the counter. He glares heatedly, already at a loss. Maybe he should’ve rehearsed this first. 

“Something wrong with your drink, señor?” Lance says without glancing away from the cocktail he’s stirring. “I’d be more than happy to fix you another—”

“ _Lance_ ,” growls Keith, and it pierces like an arrow. Lance stops and looks up, his jaw steeled. “I wanna talk.”

“A little busy, here, if you couldn’t tell.”

Briskly, expertly, Lance piles a bunch of fruit-garnished glasses onto a serving tray, hoists it up one-handed, then rears back when Keith steps around the bar and up into his personal space. 

“It’s about last night,” says Keith, fists balled at his sides. Up close, he’s able to notice the pinpricks of sweat dappling Lance’s hairline, his temples, his bowed upper lip as it shapes into a snarl.

“I work hard for my money, y’know,” Lance erupts at once.

And then, for the first time, Keith is also able to notice a tremor in Lance’s voice, accompanied by a faint flicker of hurt behind that blue gaze that he swears hadn’t been there before — or is Keith just really that dense?

His chest tightens painfully. “…I know,” he mutters. 

“I can make a hundred pesos a night, _easy_ ,” Lance goes on, “so I don’t need any handouts.”

“I know,” Keith mutters again, firmer now. He chances a direct look right into Lance’s eyes and says, “I’m sorry.”

Lance pauses for a whole beat. “You’re sorry,” he repeats.

The weight of his gaze feels like a spotlight. Keith tries not to squirm. “Yeah. I’m… sorry.”

Motionlessly, he watches how the lines of Lance’s face crinkle, then soften again, as if he’s purposefully schooling them back down. As if he doesn’t want to risk breaking character, here, out in the open. 

It sends something quickfire through Keith’s veins.

“Meet me tonight,” Lance tells him, out of nowhere, his tone hushed and indecipherable. “That spot on the beach, from yesterday? Be there at eleven. We’ll see how sorry you really are, chico.” 

* * *

Something about sneaking off property after hours just really gets Keith’s blood pumping; an instinct so deeply ingrained that not even years of counseling and strict boarding school etiquette could beat it out of him. It feels like rebellion, like missed curfews, like skipping class to go smoke behind the bleachers. Like the first time he ever kissed a boy, frantic and clumsy and completely irreversible. Or the first time those kisses led to something more, in the shadowy backseat of a Mercedes-Benz, parked along the edge of the woods where anyone could shine a light in and see.

It’s a flame in his core, crackling and wild.

Keith knows what’s expected of him. He knows what kind of son his parents want him to be. And he also knows that if he forces himself into that role — if he stays within the neat little lines that’ve been so meticulously mapped out for him, like some mindless husk in a three-piece suit — then it’ll only make him burn hotter, _hungrier_ , and Keith’s always had somewhat of an appetite for rule-breaking. Hence, most of his childhood.

Hence, right now.

Hence, _Lance_ , all long-limbed and burnished silver as he makes his way down the moon-bright beach to their deserted meeting spot.

Alarmingly enough, he appears to be carrying two surf boards, one under each arm, but perhaps even more alarming is the fact that he’s wearing a skin-tight wetsuit that leaves very little to the imagination. His muscles are firm and lean, his abs like sculpted marble, rippling beneath the suit when he moves. Broad shoulders tapering down to a willowy waist. Strong-looking. Lithe. _Bendable_.

Keith swallows audibly.

“Hey, whaddaya know,” Lance says when he’s within earshot. “Look who showed up.”

“You thought I wouldn’t?” replies Keith, his smirk sharpening with an edge of defiance.

Lance’s own lips curl in response. “You surf?” he asks, but he’s grinning like maybe the answer is already obvious just by looking at Keith, who’s standing here with hands stuffed into the pockets of his expensive linen shorts. 

“Uh. No.”

“Well,” says Lance, nodding toward the water, “tonight you do.”

For a moment, Keith’s eyes toggle back and forth between Lance and the waves tumbling violently onto the shore just a few feet away. “Now?” he asks, incredulous. “At night?”

Lance squints up at the sky, assessing. “Might be kinda choppy, sure, but the moon’s pretty full, so visibility won’t suck. Oh, and here.” He lowers the boards to the ground and then holds out an extra wetsuit for Keith. “Figured we’re probably around the same size, yeah?”

Keith stares dazedly, still processing. All he can think to say is, “I’m definitely taller.”

Lance smirks gamely at him. “That bird’s nest you call hair subtracts, like, at least a good inch. Now, go ahead and change, I’ll give you a sec—”

There’s no time to get properly defensive about it before Lance is pivoting on his heel, allowing Keith some privacy and, inadvertently, an exquisite view of the roundest, perkiest ass Keith has ever seen. The fabric strains over the swell of it, accentuating those perfect curves, and Keith realizes it’s probably a good thing that Lance can’t see his flushed face right now. He gets the feeling he’d never hear the end of it.

So, with a weighted sigh, Keith starts tugging his v-neck over his head, lets it drop carelessly into the sand. Then, after a quick side-to-side glance, he steps out of his shorts, too. The late-night air blows cool against him, flesh pebbling down to his toes. Stripping on a semi-public beach. _Huh_. That’s a new one.

“I’ve, uh,” he says, “never been in the ocean before.”

“You can swim, right?” he hears Lance ask.

“Yeah.”

“Then consider yourself certified.”

Another wary glance at the water. Another crashing wave. It’s as ominous as staring into a black hole, but Keith is already squeezing his thighs into this damn suit, so he might as well run with it. “Aren’t there, like…” he ventures, “…sharks? Or something?”

Lance bursts into a fit of loud, brassy laughter, his shoulders shaking. “Yeah, tons,” he snorts, “but if you don’t bother them, then they probably won’t bother you.”

“Probably,” Keith parrots flatly.

“All done over there? Need a zip?”

And as Lance spins around again, Keith turns to face the other way, revealing the gap in the back of his suit where it droops undone. Lance begins at the bottom, following the dip of Keith’s spine as he drags the zipper up, up, up. His fingertips are warm and the puff of his breath is even warmer, ghosting along that spot right between Keith’s shoulder blades. They’re so close. The proximity tingles like static, and when Lance gingerly brushes the hair away from Keith’s nape so that he can reach the top part of the zipper, Keith has to clench his stomach muscles into a furious knot to keep himself from outwardly shivering at the touch.

The moment hangs there, inexplicably tender. And maybe Keith is simply imagining things, but Lance’s fingers seem to linger for a bit too long, just half of a heartbeat, before he tears them away and backs up several paces, putting some distance between them. Perhaps even more than necessary.

“Yeah, so, anyway,” says Lance, his voice jumping an octave too high, “I snagged you a board, too. Already waxed ‘em up and everything, so we should be good to go.”

Swiftly, he takes the board in question and thrusts it into Keith’s hands with an appraising flick of his gaze. Keith feels it burn through him like molten iron. 

He tries to say, “I—”

“What, more excuses?” Lance cuts in. 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Sharks aren’t an _excuse_ ,” he insists. “That’s a legitimate fear.”

“So you admit you’re scared, huh?”

Lance’s smile goes from lighthearted to downright insufferable in a span of time that might actually be considered impressive if it were anyone else but Keith on the receiving end of it.

But it _is_ Keith, so he twists his mouth into a scowl and argues, “I never said that.”

“You _basically_ said it,” Lance needles, lilting, teasing, “just not in so many words…”

“Here are some words for you,” snaps Keith, hackles raising. “ _I’m not scared_.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Alrighty then,” Lance says as he gestures grandly toward the water. “After you, tough guy.”

Which is how, one second later, Keith finds himself charging bullishly past Lance, down the beach, and wading into the freezing-cold tide while Lance brings up the rear, blurting out such helpful last-minute pointers like _‘bend your knees’_ and _‘try not to drown’_. Ignoring him, Keith mounts his board and paddles even further into the dark, watery abyss.

Back in high school, Keith used to play volleyball in the fall and spent his spring semesters on the lacrosse field, so he knows how to move his body. He’s athletic and fit and, at times, even freakishly coordinated — but the ocean, apparently, could not give fewer shits about any of that.

The current pulses around Keith, omnipotent, a merciless force of nature. It slams into him, drags him under, and thrashes him around like a rag doll until Keith is clawing for the surface, eyes stinging, lungs aching. Every time he thinks he’s found his balance, he loses it again, and the waves fold over him with a monstrous whoosh. _This is not your turf, mortal,_ it seems to roar at him, asserting its dominance. _Leave now._

So, surfing? Not as easy as it looks.

And Lance makes it look very, _very_ easy.

With his arms outstretched and his head tossed back, howling rapturously at the sky like a madman, it’s clear that Lance has already made his peace with the mighty ocean gods a long time ago. He’s both graceful and powerful, gliding through the tunneling waves as if he’s the one molding them himself, directing them where to go. The wave he’s riding now carries him all the way to solid ground, gaining speed, then collapses around his feet in a cloud of ocean mist. And Lance, without missing a beat, hops right off his board, turns around and gives the ocean a theatrical little bow, like he knows damn well he’s got Keith’s eyes on him.

 _Show-off_ , Keith thinks with a tiny tendril of frustration, immediately followed by an even tinier trickle of arousal stirring in his gut, which just frustrates him all over again. He leans forward and begins paddling back to land. 

“What the _hell_ ,” he gasps out, splashing through the shallow water, his board floating behind where it’s still attached to his ankle, “does _any of_ _this_ have to do with me being _sorry?!”_

A small wave breaks over Keith’s head and knocks him soundly to his knees. Spitting and sputtering, he crawls the rest of the way up the shoreline as the water rushes out from underneath him. When he finally manages to rub the salt out of his eyes and look up, hair matted to his forehead like a wet dog, Lance is looming over him with a smile that splits his entire face open. A smile that gets caught in the moonlight, and right between Keith’s ribs.

“Nothin’, really,” Lance admits cheekily, holding out a steady hand for Keith to grab. “But it sure was fun watching you get pummeled out there.” 

* * *

Afterwards, when the two of them are sprawled out on a large cable-knit blanket, nursing a couple warm beers and gazing out at the water as it shivers ribbons of light across its surface, Lance pipes up, “Gotta say, you’re not nearly as much of a douchebag as I thought you were.”

Keith halts with his lips halfway to the bottle, glaring hard from the corner of his eye.

“Yeesh, tough crowd,” Lance mutters under his breath before taking a leisurely swig of beer. “You’re not one of those people who can’t take a compliment, are you?”

“That was a compliment?”

Lance chuckles at that, in a way that makes his whole body go slack, propped up only by his elbows. “Look, okay, it’s nothing personal,” he says. “It’s just that, y’know, I’ve been working here for a while now, so I’ve seen my fair share of spoiled brats. Strutting around with their fancy clothes and fancy educations, like they’re so much better than everyone else. Like they can just snap their fingers and get whatever they want.” His grin falls a little lopsided, small and self-deprecating. “Handing out pocket change to poor unfortunate servers, expecting us to fawn all over them like they’re some kinda patron saint. Believe me, it gets old.” 

“So that’s why you brought me here,” muses Keith. The pieces slot together in his mind, a connection being made. “To teach me a lesson.”

Sheepishly, Lance tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and skates a palm over the back of his skull, fluffing up the hair where it’s already beginning to dry into an unruly mess. “Just wanted to watch you struggle with something you couldn’t pay your way out of.”

Then he laughs, and the sound of it is so gentle and inoffensive that Keith, despite himself, joins in.

It feels odd, at first, because Keith isn’t in the habit of brushing things off, especially when that thing happens to be his own pride. Maybe it’s the beer. Maybe it’s too much salt water clogging up his brain. Or maybe it’s just Lance, the warmth of him, how it bubbles low in Keith’s belly like sea foam.

“Well, to be fair, I guess…” he concedes, albeit reluctantly, picking at the label on his bottle, “…I kinda deserved it.”

To his surprise, though, Lance doesn’t gloat. Instead, his eyes soften, and his head tilts in quiet thought. “Now, see, that?” He points his pinky finger at Keith’s face, frozen in a half-smile. “ _That’s_ how I know you’re different. ‘Cause a _real_ douchebag would never admit something like that, let alone bother apologizing in the first place. And he _definitely_ wouldn’t’ve let himself look like a bumbling idiot out on those waves tonight just to make it up to me.” 

“More backhanded compliments,” Keith grumbles, taking another sip. “My favorite.”

“So, basically, all that to say: kudos to you, chico.” Lance reaches over with his beer, holds it up ceremoniously. “You’ve got layers.” 

Keith taps his bottle against Lance’s. “Thanks?”

“And thank _you_ ,” says Lance, full of glowing sincerity, “for proving me wrong.”

They both drink.

“Want another?”

“Sure.”

Rolling onto his side, Lance stretches an arm out and tries to rummage through his tote bag without having to get up. “Sorry if it tastes like shit, by the way,” he tells him offhandedly. “Had I known we’d be sharing, I would’ve grabbed some of the good stuff.”

“The good stuff still kinda tastes like shit,” drawls Keith.

“Even with _your_ sophisticated palate?” Lance retorts. He grabs the necks of two bottles and passes one over to Keith. “And here I thought your parents would’ve raised you on caviar and white truffle oil straight outta the crib.”

“I was adopted when I was eight,” Keith grits out, taking the beer from Lance. He positions the cap of his old bottle right under the edge of the new one, pushes up with his thumb until it pops off and lands somewhere on the blanket. “Before that, it was foster parents and group homes, so no.” Then he knocks the bottle back, gulping down a sour mouthful before he mutters, “Not that sophisticated.” 

Lance watches him with owlish eyes, partway between amused and petrified. “Wow. Tall, dark, handsome, _and_ a tragic back story? That’s the whole package.” 

Keith snorts. 

“Your girlfriend must be one lucky lady.” 

By the time Keith turns his head, Lance is already glancing away. His focus is fixed up at the sky now, all those tiny stars speckled throughout, smirking as if he’s enjoying some secret little joke with himself. Keith furrows his brow, irritation on a low boil.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he grunts, for what feels like the millionth time.

“Y’know, you keep _saying_ that,” replies Lance, “but what I keep _seeing_ seems to be a little more—”

“I’m gay.”

The words are whispered, barely audible, but they might as well have been shouted across the whole goddamn beach for how they echo in Keith’s skull like a foghorn. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly as the realization fully sinks in: he’s only ever said it aloud once before. _Only once_. His tongue still throbs with the weight of it, an unfamiliar aftertaste roiling in the back of his throat.

“So,” Keith mumbles awkwardly into the night. “Yeah.” 

When he opens his eyes again, Lance looks utterly dumbfounded, his jaw hanging open like a loose hinge. Those expressive brows of his do a funny little dance along his forehead — up, down, up, scrunch — as if he’s a machine that needs recalibrating. 

And yet, even after all that, his only reply ends up being a breathless: “ _Huh_.”

Keith glowers at him. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no problems, not a single one.” Lance pauses. Shakes his head. “It’s just… like I said—” Then his expression shifts. The faded freckles sprinkled across his nose, overspilling onto his cheeks, almost seem to shimmer when he grins enigmatically at Keith and clinks their bottles together once more. “— _Layers_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the real good klance-y bits in the next chapter, y'all. Bear with me!! <3 
> 
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